I’m “one of those people” who make the bed. Which really just means I make the bed. It’s an easy chore, and it makes me feel better; it’s how I start the day. Nothing can be done (except actually getting out of bed) until it’s made. That’s just logic. How else are you going to eat breakfast? Or put on your robe? Or start the pot of tea or coffee – depending on what hour the alarm went off? With unmade sheets? That sounds physically impossible. Not even a Marvel character could pull of that stunt.

Then again, there are people who don’t do this. Instead of starting their day tidy, they leave their covers disheveled and messy – a precursor to having a terrible if you ask me. (They rarely do.) It fact, just thinking about unmade beds makes me want to puke. If you want to go lay in a pile of garbage each night, I guess that’s up to you, but leave me out of it. Which means never talk about not tucking your sheets. Because it will probably give me nightmares.

Or worse, when my own bed is left unmade, and it makes me want to die. Whenever my husband is the last one to get up (which is rare), the bed is left as a hot mess. Covers everywhere and sheets un-tightened. It causes a tiny little panic attack and I realize that the bed had been unmade that entire time. The WHOLE DAY! That he got dressed and ready without giving the sleeping blankets a second thought. Like that was normal behavior.

(And in case you’re wondering, no I’m not that OCD, it’s just this. I don’t get it either.)

I once read a book where the protagonist talked about napping as a child. That her mother had she and her siblings sleep backwards for naps, feet near the pillow. It was to differentiate the length of sleeping times, so remind them they hadn’t given up on the day. They just needed a rest. To me, not making the bed follows that same logic. Tucking covers back in, un-obstructed by people, means you’re starting the day, not throwing it to the wind.

Does it really affect me when other people don’t make their beds? No. But do any of the things I write about really affect me? Like really? Nope. It’s something I’m sometimes at terms with, you’re welcome to join me on the days your psyche allows.